


Always Two Of Us

by SH_ARidiculousMan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), M/M, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Season/Series 04, Songfic, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-04 03:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10267634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SH_ARidiculousMan/pseuds/SH_ARidiculousMan
Summary: Between and after the episodes of Season 4. Sherlock and John put the pieces back together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from Ache For You by Ben Lee. Not my words for the lyrics obviously!

Chapter 1 – after TST, before TLD

 

> _In the rain, I’m walking slowly_
> 
> _There’s a light in your apartment_
> 
> _I don’t know why_
> 
> _I ache for you_

 

 

He still hasn’t read the note that Molly passed him. Can’t bring himself to do it. Can’t fathom the idea of one more brick being pulled from the walls of his Mind Palace. One more brick and the whole thing might just come tumbling down. Sherlock Holmes isn’t sure who he’d be without his mind at least somewhat intact, but it’s a tenuous hold that he has right now on the last bastion of his intellect.

It’s not that he doesn’t already know what’s inside the note, it’s just that he doesn’t want to see it written there, in John’s hand, the stark contrast of black ink against white paper. He could tell from simply holding it that it was written in high emotions (anger? Sorrow? Sherlock’s not too sure; he still finds himself frustrated, floundering and grasping when it comes to inferring sentiment); anyhow, that much was easily deducible from the harsh pen scratches that pushed through the paper and grazed against his fingertips when he turned it in his hand. It’s all too final, too real, and Sherlock’s had quite enough of finality lately, thank you very much.

It’s very late, and Sherlock’s been walking for hours despite the rain. It’s one of those miserable London nights where you’d only be outside if absolutely necessary. Sherlock supposes that must be the case for him. He finds his feet have taken him back to the suburban street where John lives – no, lived, Sherlock corrects himself, still caught by the rawness of it – with Mary. It seems that the inexorable pull of his connection with John is gripping his subconscious even now, when they’ve never been further apart.

Sherlock stops when he’s across the street from John’s front door. He can see the light in John’s sitting room, and through the gauzy curtains he sees John’s silhouette pacing backwards and forwards, with no rhythm or tempo to speak of. Sherlock starts to wonder if he’s walking with Rosie, settling her to sleep, but before the thought is fully formed his brain catches up and he realises that of course that’s not the case. John’s car is missing from the street, the car with the baby seat in it, and he knows that one of the patient child care rota have stepped in again to take the pressure off. Not Mrs Hudson – perhaps Molly.

The rain drizzles down as Sherlock watches John’s movements. There’s a dull, constant ache in Sherlock’s chest, his stomach, and he flicks through his recent memories to ascertain what may have caused it – stretched a muscle, eaten leftover takeaway that was just a bit too old? Sherlock’s shrewd brain is having none of it – he’s just trying to distract himself from a moment of self-realisation. The ‘sociopathic’ detective notes with despair that he now seems to be feeling emotions so keenly that he’s physically hurting from it. He’s done a damn good job of avoiding this level of introspection for a long time now, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s known for many years that his carefully constructed armour was no match for the existence of John Watson and all the complicated emotions associated with his presence in Sherlock’s life.

Cold words echo inside Sherlock’s head, ‘Caring is not an advantage,’ and he grumpily shrugs off the spectre of Mycroft. He turns his attention from inward to out, seeking the light from the curtains across the road again. The silhouette of the doctor is backlit, and his pace falters, stilling as his hands come up to his face, his shoulders hunch, he shakes.

In the rain, Sherlock shivers, and something in his chest seems to crack, no longer just an ache but a screaming agony. He thinks of Mary’s DVD, still in his laptop, watched over and over. Save John Watson. The words echo in his head, and he clenches his teeth at the frustration of not knowing exactly how to do that. Half-formed plans skip across his mind but he pushes them away – they’re not enough, nothing is enough. What can possibly ever be enough to undo the brokenness he’s caused his best friend? Sherlock feels the desperation wash over him in an overwhelming, insurmountable wave. If he hadn’t been so arrogant, if he hadn’t texted Mary and John, if she hadn’t jumped in front of him when Norbury – no, stop it. These thoughts have been spiralling in his brain and he can’t escape them, can’t delete them. He’s breaking down, but he knows with purest clarity that he needs to save John. He’d do anything to stop the broken heartedness of the man who has saved him time and again. He’d give his life to save John. The detective stills at that thought. He knows the truth of it, the strength of his conviction. He’d give his life, again, for real this time, without a second of hesitation. For real…a whisper, a memory; “I know you for real,” and Sherlock knows, in that moment, the way to save John Watson. Fuck. He allows himself the curse, out loud, as he realises that he knows the way to save John. He has to become the Sherlock that John doesn’t know, the broken and battered soul that he left behind years before in a cold and clinical rehab ward. He has to break himself down to let John fix him; John, the healer, the saviour; John – a good man, not just a great one. He breathes deeply, squares his shoulders, and turns to walk away. Once more unto the breach. I ache for you. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 – after TLD, before TFP; those moments after The Hug

_It’s alright if you’re undecided_   
_Or if you’re scared that you might like it_   
_Or if it’s true_   
_I ache for you_

  
For perhaps the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes’s brain has gone quiet. Well, relatively. He’s focussed only on one thing – the feel of the man in his arms, the man whose body is wracked with sobs, whose confessions to a spectral wife have left him shattered and broken.

In this moment, Sherlock wishes irrationally that he could take from John all the pain that he’s feeling, that he could bear it for him, shoulder it along with the physical pain that’s still pulsing through his own body, a memory of withdrawal, of kicks and punches, shoulders clattering into stainless steel, tears dropping onto a cold stone floor. Sherlock thinks to himself (another moment of self-realisation, when will it stop?) that he’d take that pain and more every day to relieve John of such agony.

  
As if sensing his thoughts, John inhales deeply and pulls back slightly. His hands move away from his face and he rests them unthinkingly on Sherlock’s chest. In another moment, in another time, perhaps in post-case, adrenaline fuelled minutes, such a touch would have seared longing and arousal into Sherlock’s chest. He would have allowed his eyes to meet John’s, allowed that oft-shared, unspoken tension to sizzle, unresolved, like they had so many times in their partnership – but Sherlock knows that now is not the time for that, and his mind and body do not betray him by dragging him down that consciously abandoned path.

  
“Sherlock,” John begins, and then stops. Sherlock begins to pull away but feels John’s hands tighten on the lapels of his dressing gown. He slides his right hand from the nape of John’s neck, registers the brief pang of loss at the touch, and settles it on John’s upper arm, a mirror of his left.

  
“Sherlock, I haven’t apologised to you properly. I’m so caught up in myself, my grief for Mary, my own guilt, that I haven’t apologised for what I…what I did to you when –“

  
Sherlock cuts him off, shaking his head. “No, John. It’s fine, you don’t have to – “

  
“No – no, I do. Let me talk!” John says, a pleading, frustrated edge to his voice. His hand fists tighter in the dressing gown, and his eyes drop. He takes another deep breath in, as if steeling himself.

  
“I know I’ve said that it wasn’t your fault – and it wasn’t, it wasn’t yours or mine. You’re right though, she conveyed a value on your life and I disrespected that. Not that that actually matters – I shouldn’t have – regardless, I shouldn’t have…” he falters, and Sherlock meets his gaze evenly, allowing John to continue, to say what he needs to say – even though Sherlock forgave John the second they locked eyes as he laid on the floor of the morgue.

  
“I shouldn’t have hit you, I shouldn’t have hurt you. The anger was mine to deal with, not yours, and I really need you to know that if I could go back, undo it, I would, in a heartbeat. I would, Sherlock. I’m so, so sorry.”

  
He exhales shakily, almost a shudder. Sherlock senses the tears that threaten to fall from John’s eyes again (although how he sees them through his own unshed tears he’s not sure) and squeezes John’s arms.

  
“It’s forgiven, John. It’s done, it’s over, and it’s forgiven.”

  
John looks at Sherlock, then away, his eyes flickering down slightly and to the left. Sherlock sees, feels some of the tension in John’s shoulders dissipate, and clears his throat. John’s eyes meet his again and he smiles a half smile.

  
“Thank you, Sherlock. We’re…we’re going to be OK you know. We’ll get through this.”

  
Sherlock registers the use of ‘us’. Oh, he thinks, with a jolt. He still cares. He still wants me to come through this OK. And there’s still…an ‘us’. The ache in Sherlock’s chest and stomach – the one that lingers below the physical injuries – twists suddenly and he blinks rapidly as the unshed tears threaten again to make an appearance.

  
“We will, John.”

  
Sherlock realises that John hasn’t looked away. The look on his face is – questioning? No, considering…and now maybe decisive. What is he thinking? For a man that reads people for a living, he’s developed a worrying inability to deduce John’s train of thought lately, Sherlock muses.

  
“Sherlock,” John starts again, and this time his voice is lower, huskier. Sherlock’s not sure it’s just from the tears; something moves inside his stomach again, but perhaps slightly lower than the feelings that twisted there before.

  
“John,” replies Sherlock, with just a hint of a question in his voice.

  
John nods slightly, perhaps in response to the unspoken question, or perhaps a nod to his own resolve. “Since we’re doing this, I’m just going to be completely open here. You now I’m not good at this - ” he breaks off and moves one hand in the space between them, gesturing at one then the other.

  
“Sentiment?” questions Sherlock, and John hears the offered note of teasing in his voice, huffing a small laugh in response.

  
“Yes. You might be the one who shuns sentiment, but I’m crap at talking about it and – well, it’s probably the worst time ever to say this, to be honest, what with Mary, and I mean you’ve just had that text from The Woman…”

Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might become lodged in the back of his skull, and maybe John takes this as encouragement, because he forges ahead, his words becoming faster, falling out of his mouth as if he’s powerless to stop them – “…well, anyway, when I said that I wanted more, and I still do – it wasn’t just the texting with the bus woman. It wasn’t the bus woman at all, really.”

  
John pauses briefly, and in that moment Sherlock dimly registers that his brain is not working properly. It can’t be, because he’s never wrong – but he has to be wrong about the words that he thinks might come out of John’s mouth next. John can’t be about to go where he’s going to go. He’s not going to say what he’s about to say. Sherlock thinks back to his last hit, knows it was too long ago to be playing games with his mind. Oh, my God, he thinks. John babbles on.

  
“Because it’s you, Sherlock. That’s what I wanted. I wanted my life back, with you – and I wouldn’t change how things were, I wouldn’t be without Rosie, don’t get me wrong, and I did love Mary – but Sherlock, you have to know, with that great big obnoxious brain of yours, you have to know that what I want, what I’ve wanted for so long, is you. I want you in any way you’ll have me – I want my best friend back, but I want more, I want to be with you, and Sherlock, I lo-“

  
Sherlock steps forward and closes the distance between them. It’s an instinctive move, and when he thinks about it later he can’t actually remember making a conscious decision. His hands sweep up from John’s arms to cup his jaw, and he leans in and cuts John off by crushing their lips together. It’s awkward, undignified and in no way gentle, but he feels John respond almost instantly and then they’re kissing harshly, parting to let out ragged sobs as tears flow freely, pressing back together again with low, broken murmurs of “I know”, “I’m here”, “Yes”.

  
When they finally part, John drops his head to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I was so undecided and so scared,” he mumbles against the fabric of the dressing gown. Sherlock’s hands ghost up and down John’s spine, then he steps away gently.

  
“It’s all fine,” he says, and John’s eyes snap up to meet his, recognising the words, and smiling at the meaning behind them. How much has passed and happened since John spoke that phrase, on one otherwise nondescript night at Angelo’s. And yet – here they are, a million moments between then and now, with their lives forever, irrevocably linked.  
John reaches for his phone and types out a quick text as Sherlock stands rather awkwardly across from him.

  
“Right,” says a slightly more composed Dr Watson, “I’m going to go and wash my face, but I’ve texted Molly and I think it’s as good a time as ever to go and get some cake. It is your birthday after all. And maybe I can – I mean, if you want me to – come back here with you, instead of her? We can…I don’t know, talk some more.”

  
“Yes,” says Sherlock instantly. “To all of that.”

  
Their eyes meet again as John starts towards the bathroom and Sherlock moves to take off his dressing gown, reaching for the Belstaff. The sound of London traffic carries in through the windows over Baker Street, and Sherlock wonders silently to himself how the world hasn’t stopped turning during these sacred, shared moments between them. John smiles, and Sherlock thinks it’s the first real smile he’s seen from John in – well, in far too long. He smiles back, instinctively, and they move through the flat in harmony, somehow exactly how it’s always been and simultaneously completely changed.

  
It’s their first steps together in this new adventure and, Sherlock thinks, it’s going to be the best adventure they’ve had yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 – After TFP

_It's getting late, anticipation._

_And if we talk, communication._

_And then you’ll know_

_I ache for you_

 

_Yes, sometimes it's just desire;_

_Another problem that you really don't want,_

_But a_ _nyway,_

_I ache for you_

 

* * *

 

In the days, weeks and months following that day at Sherrinford, John and Sherlock slowly piece each other back together.

That first night, terror lingers, and each is loath to let the other man out of his sight. Mycroft might be shaken to his core, but somehow a black car still glides sleekly up to collect them from the wreckage of Musgrave Hall.

In the back seat, John shivers incessantly, still wrapped in the grey blanket, and feels long fingers wrap around his. They don’t let go until they reach John’s house, where the nanny is waiting with Rosie.

In time, Sherlock pries her from John’s arms and pushes the doctor in the direction of a hot shower. After, when Rosie is asleep, the two men find themselves in each other’s arms, lying side by side and dozing fitfully through the night.

They don’t talk about the day that lies behind them, aside from murmured reassurances and quiet reminders of shared affection. Both know that there’ll be enough words to sort through in the coming days.

The next day, with Rosie at day care, Mary’s DVD falls though the letterbox. John calls Sherlock without a second of hesitation and Sherlock arrives astonishingly fast. John doesn’t have to question the reluctance in the detective’s stance and his reluctance to join John on the couch. His heart aches a little more at this; but, there’s time enough to talk through that.

In the coming few days, 221B comes together again, the process sped along considerably by Mr British Government himself. The apartment is the same as before in so many ways, but different in so many others. Softer, somehow.

John starts to pack up the house in Crouch End, and finds himself taking a box or bag to Baker Street each time he visits. They never have the conversation about him moving back in, and they certainly don’t talk about where John’s going to sleep – but inevitably he finds himself sinking into the soft sheets in Sherlock’s room each night.

In this, like in everything else that surrounds them right now, things move slowly, and aside from whispered adorations and gentle kisses, nothing much else seems to happen. Neither worries about this; again, there’s time enough ahead of them.

 

It’s not just the rebuilding of an apartment that needs to be prioritised, though. A week after Sherrinford – after the meeting with his parents and Mycroft, but before his first helicopter ride with violin in hand – Sherlock makes the trip to Bart’s to see Molly.

John offers to go with him, but Sherlock refuses, gently. Both know this is something he needs to do alone.

He’s permitted entry to the lab, but inside, Molly refuses to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock reads the set of her shoulders, the lines on her face, and aches with the pain he’s caused her.

“Molly,” he starts, hoping she notes the use of just her first name. He’s making a concerted effort to remove the barriers that he’s always unconsciously built between the two of them – honestly, he thinks, what’s the point of hiding behind a wall now?

“Your brother came to visit,” she interrupts, worrying a thread on her cardigan.

“Ah.”

“So, um, I get it, you know,” she rushes on. “You don’t have to be here, you don’t have to tell me what happened, I know what it was, and I know you just had to say that to save me, even though it wasn’t saving me in the end, was it? So we can just ignore this, Sherlock.”

This last bit is delivered almost pleadingly.

Sherlock shakes his head. No. This won’t do. He won’t take this peace offering, won’t cash in this ‘Get out of jail free’ card. Molly Hooper deserves better, and everyone knows it.

“No, we can’t, Molly,” he says quietly, evenly.

She stills her nervous fidgeting and raises her head slightly, but still won’t meet his eyes. He forges on. “What Mycroft told you is true. I needed you to say what you said, but I don’t want you to discredit that I meant what I said.”

He pauses, his heart twisting at the look on Molly’s face. Oh, but this is so much harder than he wants it to be.

“Molly, I’ve told you before that you do matter. And I wasn’t lying then, and I mean it now. You do matter. You always have, and what I said on the phone – I do mean that. But it’s never going to be in the way you want it to be. I once said that I don’t have friends, just one – that was to John. But I was wrong, I do have friends and you’re one of the friends that I care about the most, that I need the most, Molly. And you deserve more than to spend a life pining after a ridiculous arsehole like me. And…well, and John, he and I, now, we…”

Sherlock pauses. At this, Molly has finally met his eyes, the sadness giving way to a tentative curiosity. She stares at him, and he feels himself blushing. Miraculously, Sherlock sees a smile creep across Molly’s face, blessedly reaching her eyes. He exhales, letting go of a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“You’re joking,” she breathes. “John and you…finally, you figured it out.”

Sherlock sniffs, feels the protective armour of sarcasm creep over his face, but allows it to soften as he speaks. “So it would seem. I suppose I can’t always be the first to deduce everything.”

Molly Hooper – wonderful, clever, deserving Molly Hooper – breaks into a genuine grin. “Oh Sherlock, you ass, I would have gotten over you years ago if you’d only realised how much you loved John. I suppose until you realised it, I lived in hope that maybe you never would. You two idiots.”

“So…we’re good, then?” Sherlock asks tentatively.

“We’re good,” Molly agrees. “Until you leave something disgusting in my petri dishes again, we’re good.”

 

When Sherlock arrives home, John is at the door waving goodbye to the nanny, who seems to be taking Rosie off for the evening. Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow at John as he sweeps by him and removes his coat and scarf.

“She’s taking Rosie for the night. Sleepover, it is. Everything is little bit more sorted now, isn’t it, so I thought a night on our own might be in order,” John says without meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

The detective nods wordlessly in agreement, but smiles to himself as he climbs the stairs. He notices that the lights are off in Mrs Hudson’s apartment, and wonders how John encouraged their landlady to visit her daughter with so little notice.

“So it went ok with Molly, then?” asks John as they enter the kitchen.

“Obviously,” drawls Sherlock, a hint of impatience in his voice, and John rolls his eyes with a smile. Same old Sherlock, then, in that sense at least. He moves towards the kettle, but is stopped by long arms encircling his waist. He turns, burying his face in Sherlock’s clean cotton shirt, breathing in the detective’s unmistakable scent.

“A night on our own?” asks Sherlock, perfectly curved lips brushing against silver hair.

The rough timbre of his voice is different to just before and it sends an electrical charge down John’s spine. He unconsciously pushes his body closer against Sherlock’s, bringing them flush from thigh to chest.

John raises his face and their lips meet – but this kiss isn’t like any they’ve shared before. No sorrow, grief or regret passes between them. Instead, passionate breathlessness engulfs them, tongues swiping into each others’ mouths as tension builds, reminiscent of the energy that burns between them after a heated chase or a well-solved puzzle.

They know this feeling well, but never before has an outlet such as this been available to them. Now, the back of John’s thighs meet the hard edge of the kitchen countertop. He moves his hands from Sherlock’s hips and pushes himself up so he’s seated on the bench, legs coming to wrap around the taller man.

Sherlock groans into John’s mouth as he moves his hips into the vee between the doctor’s legs, and John hisses back as their groins brush against each other through layers of cotton. Too many layers, thinks John. He moves his hands back down and fumbles awkwardly at Sherlock’s belt, then stops and buries his face in the detective’s shoulder, finding himself shaking with laughter.

“In my experience, John, giggling at such a crucial moment is not seen as complimentary,” murmurs Sherlock, a touch of humour lacing his own voice as he drags his lips along the shell of John’s ear. To his surprise, John hears a moan punctuating his own chuckles.

“Well it’s just a bit surreal, you see,” mutters John, his face still against Sherlock’s shoulder. He mouths at a clavicle through the thin cotton, noting with pleasure the response that it elicits from the detective.

“All these years of steadfastly ignoring my subconscious’ persistence on providing me with recurring dreams of what might be inside your pants,” (Sherlock snorts – snorts! thinks John – at this), “and now it’s actually happening…” he trails off, giggles subsiding in favour of dragging his lips over to the long, slender neck which arches between his touch.

Sherlock pulls away and sighs, half in pleasure, half in dramatized, put-upon resignation. John grins at him.

“Well, Doctor Watson,” he intones in a husky baritone. “Allow me to make your dreams come true.” Irrepressible, unfathomably joyful laughter accompanies them as they stumble to Sherlock’s bedroom.

* * *

 

_There’s no rhyme and there’s no reason_

_You’re the secret in the back of my skull_

_There’s no logic, so please believe me_

_Our love’s confusing but it never gets dull._

_I ache for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is only my second ever published fic (and I've been in this fandom and r adding fiction for a long time...heck I am old!) so I'm super excited. Also thanks for the comments and encouragement on my first work. 
> 
> I don't know if this works for everyone but it's how I felt things had to be to fit with the 'canon' we saw on screen in season 4. It's my headcanon and I'm glad I wrote it! <3
> 
> ALSO - #mollyhooperdeservedbetter! Far out I'm cranky at her characterisation in TFP, she wouldn't have pined for so long. No good. No good. I fixed it.


End file.
